


5 November 2013, Evening

by h3rring, makokitten



Series: Texts from John and Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fix-It, Kissing, M/M, Obsession, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Violence, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h3rring/pseuds/h3rring, https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>            You still know how to make him look at you and forget about everyone else in the room but you.  You've spent years perfecting techniques of getting under his skin like a needle, burning him slowly from the inside out like a drug, reminding him at all times that you exist and that he's addicted to you.  Alternatively: you play him like a violin that's only in tune when you're the one with fingers on the strings.</i>
</p><p>After the Underground bomb scare, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 November 2013, Evening

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the [Texts from John and Sherlock](http://textsfromjohnandsherlock.tumblr.com/) universe. Stands alone.

* * *

            You're so pleased when John asks if you want to go and get dinner with him.  You know you don't deserve it—the last thing he should be doing is voluntarily spending more time with you—but he offered it and you accepted it and you're not the kind of man who quits while he's ahead.  There's more to talk about, John says.  There's more catching up the two of you need to do.  You look him over and realise he wants to make sure you won't run away now that you've solved the case and saved London from its dissenters.  He wants you to stay here.  With him.  You couldn't be more pleased if you tried.

            You know just the place to take him to: a quaint Mexican restaurant on Hampstead Road with unforgettable _sopa de tortilla_ that will warm you right up after an evening of breathing in the foul, dank air of the London Underground.  You're desperate to taste it again.  You're desperate to taste him again, too.  You're desperate to grab him by the waist and dip him down like a dance partner and taste him tasting you on the tip of your tongue.

            You shouldn't think like that.  You know you shouldn't be thinking like that.  You look away from him to hail a taxi and tell yourself to stop thinking like that immediately.

            After you exit the taxi at Hampstead Road, after you've made sure he's still with you (and he's made sure you're still with him), you look at the assorted storefronts and discover too much has changed in your years-long absence.  Your quaint Mexican restaurant with the red tablecloths and white place mats is no longer where you last remember it being.  Your internalised map of London cringes and shifts around, accepting this new reality even though you don't want to.

            You stare at the delicatessen that has replaced your quaint Mexican restaurant.  It's darker somehow—dingier.  Badly in need of a fresh coat of paint and more colour.  Jovial mariachi music isn't playing on the interior speakers, isn't spilling out the front doors each time someone goes in or comes out.  You don't hear any music playing at all.  Just the cars on the road.  People talking on their mobile phones as they walk by.  Your own breathing.  John's breathing.

            Something a-bit-not-good must be showing on your face.  John says to you, “You okay?”

            You don't know how to tell him that nothing will ever be okay again, beginning with the disappearance of your quaint Mexican restaurant with the red tablecloths, white place mats, mariachi music, and unforgettable _sopa de tortilla_.

            “It's not here,” you say.

            “Did you get the address wrong?” he asks, then realises he's an idiot for asking you that.

            “Used to be right here.”  You point at the delicatessen.  Even the tables and chairs are different makes and models than they used to be.  The entire layout of the seating area has changed—you can see that through the front windows.  It makes you feel rotten.

            “Sherlock, it's fine,” he says.  “A lot can change in two years.”  Including him, you think.  Including both of you.  “But I'm starving.  I could eat anything right now.  Come on.”

            You sit down with him and a couple of sandwiches: tuna and cucumber for him, chicken salad for you.  You could make several deductions based on his choice of a meal, but you know he wants to be the first to say something and it's probably for the best to let him say it.

            He takes three bites of tuna and cucumber before he knows what he wants to say.  “That thing you said on the train,” he starts with, then reconsiders, then decides to keep going, “about if you hadn't come back.  If you hadn't come back, then I wouldn't have been there with you... and my future with Mary...”

            You focus on making absolutely sure a single speck of chicken salad doesn't escape from between the slices of bread.

            “That thing you said,” he repeats.  Prompting you.

            “I remember,” you say.  “I was there.  Had to be, considering I said it.”

            “I don't know if it was part of your trick or what... but London's your _home_ , you twat.  Sherlock Holmes belongs in London.  You're—”  He smiles.  Not a particularly happy smile.  Better than nothing.  “You're practically a national treasure.”

            John wants you to stay here.  Even though he doesn't want you, even though he has chosen someone else, he wants you to stay here with him.

            “Of course it's my home.”

            “So don't talk like that.  I mean it, Sherlock.  Don't talk like you weren't planning to come back, or like you're getting ready to leave again.”

            You'd be lying if you said you hadn't been thinking of going abroad.  There could be more cells of Moriarty's to uncover—sleeper cells buried deep, waiting to burst forth like pus from an untreated wound.  You can't know if they're completely neutralised.  You have a few loose ends to tie up with the Serbians, too.

            But John makes the decision for you to stay.

            You confirm it for him.  “I'm not going anywhere.”

            The two of you return to eating your sandwiches.  There's still more he wants to say to you.  You try and wait patiently, even though patience isn't your strong suit.

            “Where were you?” he asks approximately two minutes later, when half of his sandwich is gone and he has decided he's not very hungry after all.  You can see him debating if he wants to take the rest home or if he should throw it out.  “All that time.  Two years.  Where were you?”

            This part is easy.  You've rehearsed this part ad nauseam.  “Here and there,” you recite from memory.  “Everywhere, really.  Wherever I needed to be.  Though I did stop for a time in Montpellier to do some chemical research on coal tar derivatives.  It was neat.”

            He doesn't even flinch.  “Coal tar derivatives.”

            “Yes.”

            “That does sound like you,” he says, then laughs.

            You like hearing John laugh.  It's better than hearing him cry over you while he visits your grave site.  You never want to hear him cry over you if you can help it.  So tonight you've made him laugh because you know how to manipulate his emotions to provoke outrage and then transform it into laughter, which makes the laughter feel even better, even sweeter, than if it were an isolated event.  Since your return it has been far too much fun to stimulate a plethora of emotions in John Watson: his shock, his sadness, his anger, his horror, his forgiveness, (his love,) and finally his happiness at having you back.  As a social experiment, it has proceeded and concluded beautifully.  He's different than you remember; not different enough.

            You still know how to make him look at you and forget about everyone else in the room but you.  You've spent years perfecting techniques of getting under his skin like a needle, burning him slowly from the inside out like a drug, reminding him at all times that you exist and that he's addicted to you.  Alternatively: you play him like a violin that's only in tune when you're the one with fingers on the strings.

            “See a lot of—action, then?”  John missed you and your adventures, even though he's loath to admit it.

            “No,” you say, licking your thumb clean of breadcrumbs.  His eyes follow your tongue and that is exhilarating.  “Moriarty's men allowed me to deconstruct their network without lodging a single complaint.  Fairly nice of them, I'd say.”

            Ensnared in your song, he can't help but smile at the sarcasm.  “Yeah.  Considerate, even.  Probably sent you thank you notes afterward.”

            “Probably.”

            Over the next ten seconds, his gaze becomes more intense and discerning.  He is looking at you for physical evidence of your time away, likely imagining barroom brawls, wild gunfights, and other James Bond-inspired episodes of foolishness.  He wants to see how time has changed you too.

            “If you're looking for the whip scars,” you say lightly, “for the most part they're located on my back.”

            He chokes on an inhale.

            “I wasn't...”  He swallows.  He's uneasy.  “I wasn't looking.”

            You don't have the energy to deal with John's tendency for denial.  “The Sundanese weren't exactly hospitable.  I caused them some embarrassment when I went after their human slave trade, a favourite pet project of Moriarty's.  Mycroft did get around to extracting me, but not before I spent three months in one of their prisons.  That was the only time in my campaign when I wasn't sure if I would make it home to you.”

            He is staring at you, taken aback.  He doesn't know if he should believe what you just said due to your practiced levity.  It doesn't matter to you if he elects to ignore it or treats it as hyperbole.

            “Have you talked about this with someone?” he asks hesitantly.  “'Cause I do know a halfway-decent therapist.”

            “I'll have to decline, John.”

            “At least think it over.”  In a way, you're both war veterans now, only your war was waged in the shadows.  He sighs, resigned, too tired to argue with you about it.  “Never mind; figured you'd say that.”

            You lean closer to him.  You wonder if he can smell you as well as you can smell him.  He is wearing a different brand of cologne now—it must be something Mary likes instead.  It clashes with his natural body chemistry.  You wonder how hard it would be to get him to change it for you, as he did with the moustache.  

            “Then I don't know why you bothered offering,” you say.

            His smile is quick to fade.  Are you too close?  Or not close enough?  “I wish...”

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” he mutters.

            “Well, that's the easiest wish to grant.”

            He shakes his head ruefully.  You don't know what there is to be sorry about, which doesn't stop him from apologising to you.  “But I'm sorry about the, uhm... the trauma.  What you must have gone through while you were gone.  I've been there, it's not fun.”

            “I did not suffer any _trauma._ ”

            “Physical trauma does count,” he points out.

            “All in a day's work.”  You're distracted by the breadcrumbs that insist on sticking to your skin again and again and again and again.  You can't stand the sensation.  You lick them off of your fingers again.  He watches you do it again.  “And work is the best antidote for sorrow.”

            “Plus, you know, that eyeliner moustache,” he quips, desperate to change the subject.  He motions to his own clean-shaven face.  You do prefer your doctors clean-shaven.  “Not exactly the work of a sane person, yeah?”  You know your tongue would fit perfectly along his philtrum.

            “Sociopath, psychopath, call me whatever you'd like if it suits your narrative.”  Beneath the table, you brush one of his feet with your own.  He pretends not to notice, but the way he sits up slightly straighter gives him away.  “At least _my_ moustache was nowhere near as depraved-looking as yours.”

            Beneath the table, he retaliates by tapping his foot against yours.  “God, that thing was awful, now that I'm thinking about it.”

            “Knew you'd come around.”  Then you feign checking your wristwatch and exclaim, “Progress!”

            “What is?” he asks.

            You grin at him.  This is really good news and you're eager to share it.  “Haven't been punched in the face in the last twelve hours.”

            “You _deserve_ another punch in the face,” he says, tapping your foot again, “for what you did in that train car.  But I figured you needed some time to heal up before the next one.”

            You nod wisely.  “Ah, yes, I understand.  Why binge when you can spread it out over time and savour every instance individually?”

            “Besides...”  He pauses.  He remembers something—someone—you successfully made him forget about for a few minutes.  “Mary might have some objections.  She likes you.”

            Without missing a beat, you say, “I did pull you out of a bonfire.  I deserve some credit.”

            “She liked you before that, actually.”

            “Soon she'll see the errors of her ways.”

            “Well, she made it very clear that she doesn't mind seeing you back in my life.”

            Your stomach clenches.

            You hate the fact you're jealous of Mary Morstan.  You are pathetic.

            Suddenly I wonder why you're doing this.  Why are you talking to yourself in the second person, Sherlock?  Is it easier than confronting how you really feel?  Is it easier to pretend that this is happening to someone else, that you're sitting on high and judging a lovesick creature as lesser than you for feeling petty human things like jealousy?  Is it another way of escaping the deplorable things you've done to John—your guilt at leaving him behind, at not telling him the truth, at making him confess to you on the train when he thought he was going to die?  Is that what you're trying to do?  Do you wish you could be someone else?  You can't change who you are no matter what.  I don't understand why you're trying.  I don't know what you're thinking.  I don't know what I'm thinking any more.

            “Why?” I ask.

            “Why what?” he asks.

            “Why are you letting me do this to you?”

            “What?”

            I hasten to explain myself.  “I could take you apart and put you back together again.  Right now.  Right here on this table.  And you'd let me do it, John.  You'd let me do anything to you.  I want to know why.”

            “What the _hell_ are you—”  He glances around the delicatessen, then laughs nervously.  What if someone overhears?  Who cares?  “I like my arms and legs where they are, thank you very much.”

            Is he afraid of me?  He should be afraid of me.  I'm afraid of me most of the time.  I never know what I'm capable of when I feel like this: not quite real, not quite alive.  I feel invincible.  I feel like a god for cheating death multiple times.  I am a god and John is my mortal prize.

            I move my chair around the table, closer to John's.  Only inches separate us now.  Sometimes it feels like it could be miles and I need to close the distance as soon as possible.

            “I want to dissect you,” I murmur in his ear.  I will seduce him with brutal honesty.  “I won't do it, not without your permission, but I want to do it.  So _badly_ , John.  You've no idea.  I want to open you up and take a peek inside, and figure out exactly what it is that's changed and what it is that's kept you marching along in my absence.”

            “You know,” John says, sounding and looking stern, taking his hands off of the table defensively, “we could do the normal people thing and just talk about it.”

            “Boring.  I'd prefer to see you pinned beneath me for study.”  I exhale against the side of his face.  All calculated actions: give and take.  “You should recall how I'm _very_ thorough when it comes to my study subjects.”

            I ignore the look of mild horror and confusion on his face.  I reach down and take him by the wrist.  I'm trying to be gentle.  It's not often I'm the first to touch him, but I haven't touched him like this in years and I don't know how to go about stopping myself now.  I remember pulling him out of the bonfire—the way I touched him then (frantically) is nothing like this (soothingly).  I see the fire on the backs of my eyelids every time I close my eyes.  I'm determined to replace the dancing flames with something else.

            “Come home with me, John.”  I'm not going to beg; I don't need to.  He has been signaling to me all night that he desires this as much as I do.  I'm not hopeless at understanding lust.  “I want to learn—relearn—everything about you.”

            “But—”  No, no, there's no use protesting.  “Mary is—”  Just go along with it, John.  I gave into how I felt for you a long time ago and it's not as bad as I thought it would be.  I've thought about our reunion endlessly.  “What about—”

            I interrupt him: “Say it's for a case.  Say it's urgent.  You forgave me for the fall, for the bomb on the train, so you can forgive me for asking you to lie to your fiancée about this.”

            “Sherlock, we can't.”

            His words grate my nerves raw.  “I know we _can't_ ,” I snap angrily, “but that doesn't mean we _won't_.”

            “I know we left things on—on a _note_ , two years ago, but now I've a thing with Mary—and it's serious.”  John turns his head to look at me.  I stare at a neutral spot near the end of his nose.  If I wait long enough, his resolve will crumble.  I'm sure of it.  “It really is serious, Sherlock.  I proposed to her.  I'm going to spend the rest of my life with her.”

            I kiss him.  In full view of the delicatessen (dreary, hateful, nothing at all like my quaint Mexican restaurant with the soup I'll never taste again), I lean forward and kiss him like I've wanted to since I first saw him a few days ago.

            He doesn't push me away.  Not at first.  Then he pushes me away by the shoulders.  His eyes were shut so tightly during the kiss.  Now they're opening with the incredulity of a survivor of a horrific car crash.  I am that car crash.

            “We can't,” he says, and his voice breaks.  I'm forced to look into his eyes and I know I have done something unforgivable.  I have crossed a line and it will take a while for that line to be erased and to stop separating us.  “That's just how things are, okay?”  He lets go of my shoulders and quickly reaches for his wallet.  Ever the gentleman, he wants to pay for dinner.  “I should—thanks for the sandwich—but I really should be getting home now.”

            I don't know what to say.  I've ruined everything.

            “We'll talk more later,” he says in a rush.  “I promise.”

            He doesn't say good night to me.  He gets up and leaves you sitting alone at the table.

            You are not a god, Sherlock Holmes.  You are scarcely a man.


End file.
